


It's for the Best

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, cricket bat, lack of pants, sausage, whumpage of the sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 00:15:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dimmock is away in Japan on assignment. Lestrade is home alone -- or was, until someone climbs into bed with him in the middle of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's for the Best

“You’re home early,” Greg mumbled. He was a light sleeper. He woke up when cars backfired three blocks away -- when Mrs. Next Door turned her lights on at three in the morning. It was impossible for him to ignore the mattress sagging under the weight of another person, and the warmth of that body tucking itself in against him. 

But he didn’t mind. Iain was a good reason to get up in the middle of the night. 

Except that it wasn’t Iain -- and being a light sleeper, he noticed. 

“What the hell?” he demanded, sitting up abruptly. 

The figure in his bed whimpered at the movement, curling up tighter and dragging the blankets that he’d snaked his way under closer around his thin, pale body. Greg fumbled for the lights, slapping at the plastic case with one hand until he found the switch. He winced when they came on -- but not half so hard as the battered, raggedy waif in his bed.

“Sherlock...” 

Hours later, after Greg had gotten the young detective into the bath and washed away the dirt and blood that covered his face and caked in his hair, Sherlock gradually explained what had happened. A case gone wrong, obviously -- but wrong only in the sense that he’d miscalculated his own ability to overpower the suspect. He was right about everything. Right about the crime, about the motive, the double homicide, and the false alibis. He’d correctly deduced the weapon, and the location, and a number of other things that Greg repeatedly insisted could be dealt with in the morning. No one else was in danger -- no one but Sherlock, and it was Sherlock that needed looking after. 

It was Sherlock that had a black eye, a fractured wrist, a severely bruised torso, and more cuts on his face than Greg could recall ever happening in something the bloody fool dismissed as a ‘mere disagreement’. He’d fought -- quite hellishly -- Greg’s insistence that they go straight to the hospital. He didn’t need it, he’d said. He only needed to rest briefly. 

At that point Greg knew how very serious his injuries were -- Sherlock Holmes did not stop mid-case to rest -- but he didn’t push. There was no point. He could only coax the consulting detective into explaining what had happened as he tended to Sherlock’s wounds. 

“There were more of them than I’d anticipated,” Sherlock finally relented, slowly lifting his injured hand out of the steaming bath.

“You don’t say.” Greg very gently dabbed at a cut over Sherlock’s eye with a cloth dipped in antibacterial ointment. “Sounds a bit like you were ambushed.” 

Sherlock grumbled unintelligibly. He might have been -- but he certainly wasn’t going to admit it. Owning up to his slight miscalculation was enough wrongness for one night. 

Greg, meanwhile, silently offered a dozen plus prayers to whichever force -- deity or guardian angel -- had taken it upon themselves to keep Sherlock alive. 

“There,” he added, straightening up. “That’ll do you for now.” 

Sherlock pursed his lips -- and immediately regretted it. His entire face felt sore and bloated. (Which it was.) He huffed -- his preferred method of saying “thank you”. 

“You’re welcome,” Greg answered, prompting another painfully quizzical glare from his insolent patient. “Can I convince you to eat something, or--”

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted. Greg eyed him curiously. “I’m not deducing. Digesting isn’t an impediment.” 

Greg frowned. “Right.” But he was grateful all the same. Any time that Sherlock voluntarily ate was a happier day for him.

He stood up and grabbed a dry towel from a hook on the back of the bathroom door. “You take this,” he instructed, passing it to Sherlock. “Dry off a bit-- don’t you bloody dare wipe that stuff off your face. I’ll turn you over my fucking knee if I have to,” he muttered, stepping into the bedroom. Sherlock glared at his back as he walked out.

“Wrap yourself up when you’re ready and come into the kitchen,” Greg called out.

Sherlock took his time. Lestrade had seen to all of his visible injuries -- assessing each one, and fixing up the worst. But Sherlock had yet to meticulously catalogue each of them on his own. Prior to getting in the bath, his only concern had been finding his way to Lestrade’s flat without bleeding out, or being found days later in an alley, half-conscious and starved. Now that he was alone, he quietly poked and prodded with his good hand, peering at himself in the mirror through his good eye, and surveyed the damage.

Greg had set up a simple meal at the kitchen table by the time he came out. Sherlock winced as he walked, forcing himself not to limp, and Greg stared as he trudged across the cold tile. 

“Did you miss the bit about wrapping up?” He asked, keeping his eyes on the utterly naked man’s bruised face. 

Sherlock held up his fractured wrist and made a dismissive sound. He’d tried to tie the damp bath towel around his waist, but it was too difficult with only one hand. Greg sighed. 

“I’ll find you some trousers.”

“They won’t fit,” Sherlock countered.

“Some bloody pants, then,” Greg amended, retreating to the bedroom.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sank down as smoothly as possible onto a kitchen chair. Eating wasn’t so hard -- he was very nearly ambidextrous, and even a child could master a fork. He gripped the utensil tightly in his left hand and began to shovel as much food into his mouth as the width of his bruised jaw would allow.

Greg came back, toting a pair of blue boxer shorts. “Here, these should fit-- … holy Christ.” 

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, calmly swallowing the remaining end of a sausage. He’d absolutely demolished the meal Greg set out, to the older detective’s disappointment -- he’d prepared what he thought would be enough for both of them.

“Jesus, I’d forgotten how bloody ravenous you can get.” Greg tossed the pants into Sherlock’s lap and snatched up the last piece of toast.

“You offered me food,” Sherlock protested. 

“Yeah, but not fuckin’ all of it, you wanker,” Greg answered mid-bite. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed himself to his feet. He took one step towards the refrigerator before Lestrade choked on his toast.

“Put.” He snatched up the shorts where they’d fallen to the floor and held them out again. “The bloody pants on.” 

Sherlock didn’t smile -- but his intentions were transparent. “I can’t,” he replied. He would have shrugged, but the movement didn’t lend itself well to recently dislocated shoulders.

Greg licked his lips. “Then I’ll tie you up in a sheet and cart you to the hospital.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he pouted. Greg brandished the shorts at him. “I’m not fucking holding them so you can step in. If you can walk around my kitchen, you can sodding get dressed.” 

The consulting detective grabbed the shorts with an unimpressed sneer and tugged them on it. Greg didn’t say anything -- but he definitely enjoyed watching Sherlock struggle more than a wholly good person should have. “Thank you,” he added after Sherlock straightened up. Sherlock stepped around him, and yanked open the refrigerator door. 

“Help yourself,” Greg said with a smile. 

Sherlock did. And he continued to do so for several days. 

As the sun came up on the first day, he explained that he’d be gone by nightfall -- just enough time for his injuries to heal. But as night and fever simultaneously settled in, he found himself confined to the bed that he’d climbed into the night before. Greg insisted they call a doctor; Sherlock refused. It was a cyclical battle that ended with Sherlock getting better -- and Greg reminding himself that throttling the insolent bastard would have been detrimental to his steadily improving health. 

In the haze of Sherlock’s slow recovery, they both lost track of time. Greg called in a few favours and made the arrest -- bringing Sherlock’s case to an end. He denied Sherlock the opportunity to visit his assailant in prison however, citing the inevitable murder charge as not worth his time. Sherlock sulked -- and forgot about it within a few hours. 

He spent the next day -- the entire day -- unconscious in Greg’s bed.

It wasn’t the first thing Dimmock expected to see when he came home. It wasn’t a thing he ever expected to see -- but all things considered, he dealt with the surprise quite well. He left his luggage by the door and very kindly tiptoed to the bathroom. The water was running, and although it wouldn’t have surprised him at that point to find yet another stranger using his shower -- he was hoping it was the so-called man of the house. 

“...Greg?” he asked, poking his head through the door.

Greg stopped whistling and peered around the curtain. “Shit, is it Wednesday?” He wiped suds from his face and grinned. “Welcome home.” 

Iain smiled. “Thanks... about that-- are you aware that Sherlock Holmes is asleep in our bed?” 

Greg’s gleeful expression melted into sheepish embarrassment. He nodded slowly. “Yeah... it’s a long story.” 

“I imagine,” Iain replied, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Tense?” Greg tugged the curtain back, very obviously inviting Iain to join him in the shower. Iain snorted. 

“I’m going to unpack... on the couch, I suppose.” 

“Sorry, love,” Greg murmured apologetically. 

Iain turned towards the door, but paused. “Is he wearing pants?” 

“Yes,” Greg answered emphatically. “...or at least, I think he is.” 

“And if he isn’t?” 

“There’s a cricket bat in the hall cupboard.” 

Iain nodded and left. Greg leaned back into the water and rinsed the shampoo out of his sudsy, fauxhawked hair. And Sherlock, meanwhile, slumbered on. 

Greg eventually stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. He was still soggy when he flopped down on the sofa next to Iain -- but it was his couch, and he didn’t care. The younger detective inspector only rolled his eyes and smiled. 

“How was Japan?” 

“Crowded.”

“Yeah? Case go well?” 

Iain put down a pair of socks and turned to face him. “I think I’d rather hear the long story.”

Greg took a slow breath, nodded, and leaned back. “Sorry about that,” he replied quietly. “He showed up in the middle of the night in a bad way.” Iain’s expression darkened with concern. “Yeah, got the shit kicked out of him by this bastard. Double homicide -- but he knew Sherlock was on to him. I still don’t know how the kid walked out of there alive. His wrist’s broken, but he won’t let me take him to the bloody hospital to have it set. Said he did it himself.” 

They exchanged dubious looks.

“He came in covered in blood and dirt,” Greg continued. “Had a black eye. Ended up delirious with fever for a day or so. He finally passed out yesterday, once we wrapped the case.” 

“How long has he been here?” 

“It’s Wednesday? …maybe a little less than a week? Probably about five days.” 

“And he’s been sleeping in our bed the entire time?” 

“What are you asking, Iain?” 

“If you slept in it with him,” Iain answered bluntly. He wasn’t angry -- he wasn’t the type of person to get angry about that sort of thing. And he certainly wasn’t asking if Greg and Sherlock had shagged while he was away. He knew better, but he was desperately curious about just how close the immovably moral Greg Lestrade would come. 

“Not once,” Greg retorted, pursing his lips. “He did crawl in with me when he first came in, but it was a bit hard to have a cuddle with someone bleeding out.” Iain looked disgusted. 

“Tell me you changed the sheets.”

“Burned them.” 

“Thank god,” Iain muttered. “Will he be transferring to the couch now, or is he renting our bed?” He put a very particular emphasis on ‘our’. 

Greg shifted uncomfortably. “No reason he can’t go home now.” 

“Well, he is unconscious.” 

“After that,” Greg amended. 

“And in the mean time...” 

“We’ve had sex on this couch before.” 

Iain snorted. That was certainly true, but-- “Your ex is sleeping in our bed and you want to have a shag?” 

“I’d settle for a snog.” 

“Greg.” 

“I know, I’m sorry.” He slumped, sinking down into the cushions. “I couldn’t turn him out. You should’ve seen him, Iain...”

Iain slid closer. “No, I’m not mad,” he said quickly. “But it’s... you’ve got to admit it’s a little weird.”

“Yeah, a bit,” Greg conceded.

“A bit?” Iain laughed. “Greg, c’mon. It’s odd enough that he’s around all the time.” 

“Excuse me, I know for a fact that one of your exes works in the post room.” 

Iain looked down abruptly. He was very nearly blushing. “I try to forget about that.” 

“He doesn’t.”

And then they were kissing. Iain leaned in, cupping Greg’s face with both hands -- anything to get him to shut up. Greg grinned, but then, he’d been wanting to do just that since Iain set foot into the bathroom nearly an hour ago. He had no reason to protest.

He grabbed the younger man by the hips, hauling him quite roughly into his lap. Iain had his fingers twisted in Greg’s damp hair, and Greg felt like humming. He didn’t mind that Iain was constantly in and out of the country -- he was fairly apathetic about the hours, and the distance, and the long, cold nights.

But he bloody loved it when Iain came home.

He sprawled out across the couch, Iain stretched out on top of him, and everything around them dissolved. Hands caressed bare skin. Bare skin flushed and burned. Thighs met thighs and hips pushed elatedly against each other as Iain’s teeth tugged at Greg’s lower lip.

“I missed you,” he murmured, leaving a trail of slow, warm kisses from Greg’s mouth to the curve of his jaw.

Greg smiled. He didn’t need words -- he let his hands, and his eyes, and his lust do the talking. His fingers scraped at the shirt on Iain’s back, pulling it out of his trousers. His eyes poured over every inch of the younger man’s face -- taking in every line, every perfect freckle. 

“Morning,” Sherlock said with a yawn, wobbling past them and into the kitchen.

Iain and Greg both froze.

Sherlock -- once again naked, and genuinely oblivious -- made a racket as he stubbornly searched for tea.

Iain looked down at Greg, who -- contrary to every law of nature -- was bright red. “He has no idea it’s evening, does he?” 

“Probably not,” the grey-haired detective answered.

Iain hastily sat up, fixing his shirt. Greg, free of the weight of his significant other, grabbed the nearest cushion and held it tightly in his lap. 

“Cricket bat?” Iain asked.

“In the cupboard.” 

“Right.” 

Sherlock knocked an entire shelf of dishes to the floor where they shattered against the tile. Iain stood up and marched to the cupboard. Greg shouted: “Where are your bloody PANTS, you sodding brat!?” 

“On the floor somewhere,” Sherlock answered dully. “I don’t like them.” 

Iain held up the bat. “Knock him unconscious, shag, drop him off at his own flat? Or just murder him and drop the body in the Thames?” 

“There’s no shagging in the second option?” 

“There’s a dead body.” 

Greg looked thoughtful. “Right. Hmm...” 

“So just unconscious then?” 

“Probably for the best.”


End file.
